Oh, what a scary time that must have been... and you drop the reader right into it, too, with those first five devastating lines that lead to the sixth "so often fatal." And that photo of you and Bird is just precious. And that last stanza so ominously drops us more deeply into the story of these two. Such a keeper, Amrita... your Bird and this precious poem.
Thank you, Jan. I was just about to send the finished manuscript to Kelsay Books (Aldrich Press, one of their imprints) when I realized this information was missing. My son, born with a life-threatening heart defect, is limping with an obvious not-working left arm in some of the poems, with no accounting for why. My manuscript was due by August 31st, and even with all the back pain I've been going through, I was determined to get it in early. Then realized this poem HAD to be written!
This publisher is the exact opposite of the one I used last time: Finishing Line Press. They were horrible communicators. I think seven of the people in my weekly critique group have been published by them, and everyone of them disliked the experience. Kelsay Books has been just the opposite. When I've sent an update email, I have heard back within 24 hours every time. And my book will apparently be out by February or March, a one-year timeline compared to two years at FLP. At my age, this is important! And this book in particular, I MUST see in print. I hope you will read the book when it comes out. Sending love, Amrita
Gosh that sounds terrifying. And the overwhelming love for the newborn. The words “And a sword will pierce your own soul too” kept resonating in my mind.
So terrifying. What happens to our babies happens to us as well, you are right. He made it, although quite disabled, and is now 52, and a deep, precious human being. One of my great teachers. He has severe chronic pain and never complains.
A poem on terrible vulnerability. "A mother knows" stays with me. These three words tell scores. This poem made me think how helpless mothers are when something wrong happnes to our babies.
This was 52 years ago, but like yesterday. So helpless. But now he's 52, and although quite disabled, a deep and amazing human being that I treasure. He is able to live independently, but not able to work. We live in California, and the state helps so much. I'm deeply grateful. The collection, called "Bird Rising" comes out from Aldrich Press early next year. Maybe February.
Didi, this one stayed with me. The movement from those stark medical words to the simple “tiny Bird is different” is deeply affecting. And that final overheard sentence quietly changes everything that came before it.
This is the last poem I wrote--just a few days ago--before sending the collection to the publisher. I dawned on me that my son was born with a life-threatening heart defect, well-detailed in the collection of poems, but no explanation as to why he limps and has virtually no use of his left arm. Now at least people have a clue.
Didi, that makes the poem even more important—you gave him a body the collection hadn't explained before. I’m glad you found a way to let readers see that part of his story. ❤️
Oh Amrita! My heart went out to you and Bird when I read this poem! And to hear such news second hand must have been devastating, but I also understand how at the time of a crisis your mind can be so engulfed, that background conversations don't always surface/become relevant until later. Hugs, Robin
Thank you, Amy. The whole collection comes out from Aldrich Press early next year. It was healing to write, and I'm delighted that Bird loves the cover and the name. He already wants some copies to give away.
Oh, what a scary time that must have been... and you drop the reader right into it, too, with those first five devastating lines that lead to the sixth "so often fatal." And that photo of you and Bird is just precious. And that last stanza so ominously drops us more deeply into the story of these two. Such a keeper, Amrita... your Bird and this precious poem.
Thank you, Jan. I was just about to send the finished manuscript to Kelsay Books (Aldrich Press, one of their imprints) when I realized this information was missing. My son, born with a life-threatening heart defect, is limping with an obvious not-working left arm in some of the poems, with no accounting for why. My manuscript was due by August 31st, and even with all the back pain I've been going through, I was determined to get it in early. Then realized this poem HAD to be written!
This publisher is the exact opposite of the one I used last time: Finishing Line Press. They were horrible communicators. I think seven of the people in my weekly critique group have been published by them, and everyone of them disliked the experience. Kelsay Books has been just the opposite. When I've sent an update email, I have heard back within 24 hours every time. And my book will apparently be out by February or March, a one-year timeline compared to two years at FLP. At my age, this is important! And this book in particular, I MUST see in print. I hope you will read the book when it comes out. Sending love, Amrita
Gosh that sounds terrifying. And the overwhelming love for the newborn. The words “And a sword will pierce your own soul too” kept resonating in my mind.
So terrifying. What happens to our babies happens to us as well, you are right. He made it, although quite disabled, and is now 52, and a deep, precious human being. One of my great teachers. He has severe chronic pain and never complains.
A poem on terrible vulnerability. "A mother knows" stays with me. These three words tell scores. This poem made me think how helpless mothers are when something wrong happnes to our babies.
This was 52 years ago, but like yesterday. So helpless. But now he's 52, and although quite disabled, a deep and amazing human being that I treasure. He is able to live independently, but not able to work. We live in California, and the state helps so much. I'm deeply grateful. The collection, called "Bird Rising" comes out from Aldrich Press early next year. Maybe February.
Didi, this one stayed with me. The movement from those stark medical words to the simple “tiny Bird is different” is deeply affecting. And that final overheard sentence quietly changes everything that came before it.
This is the last poem I wrote--just a few days ago--before sending the collection to the publisher. I dawned on me that my son was born with a life-threatening heart defect, well-detailed in the collection of poems, but no explanation as to why he limps and has virtually no use of his left arm. Now at least people have a clue.
Didi, that makes the poem even more important—you gave him a body the collection hadn't explained before. I’m glad you found a way to let readers see that part of his story. ❤️
A lifetime of putting the pieces together. New understanding and love mixing with rich soup of life.
What an interesting take. Yes, all of that! I hope you are well and happy!
love,
Amrita
Beautiful. Amrita. Looking forward to your book. ❤️
That makes me so happy. It should be out around February/March.
Oh Amrita! My heart went out to you and Bird when I read this poem! And to hear such news second hand must have been devastating, but I also understand how at the time of a crisis your mind can be so engulfed, that background conversations don't always surface/become relevant until later. Hugs, Robin
His stroke was not actually acknowledged until he was twenty years old! They said he was just born with cerebral palsy.
Yes, a mother knows and her instincts trusted. Holding you in love as you remember your younger self and your little bird💕
Thank you, Amy. The whole collection comes out from Aldrich Press early next year. It was healing to write, and I'm delighted that Bird loves the cover and the name. He already wants some copies to give away.
I can scarcely imagine your feelings, your thoughts...
Honestly, mostly terror, anxiety.
I didn’t have a doctor actually admit he had had a stroke until he was 20 years old.
Yes, a mother knows, and you have been there for Bird through it all, heartfelt.
The look on Bird's face! And yours, both knowing in different ways. The poem Heartbreaking and yet determined, strong. Bless you.